


Red Sky In Mourning

by project_canary



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Gen, True Detective AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-03 07:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21175454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_canary/pseuds/project_canary
Summary: An interview. That's what it's supposed to be at least. The case is cold at this point, and the officers just need Criken's side of the story. Turns out, it might be a little bit more than they bargained for.





	1. Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (/ˈpeˌtrīkôr/): a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

It’s a dreary September morning. The sweet summer days were still a close memory, and the colder nights were a reminder that fall always gave way to wet winters. Today it was raining. Not the pouring rain that filled the levies and ruined crops. It was a misty precipitation that coated your hair and eyelashes and soaked you to the bone if you stayed outside too long. But as Char walked from the microwave in the side room they called the kitchen back to the private office, he could hear the mist turn to rain, the drops pattering against the roof. 

The door clicked shut and Charborg returned to his seat, an uneasy silence filling the room. Papers and files were scattered across the table, and Char placed two new, hot coffees onto some of the papers, using them like coasters. An almost antique cassette recorder sat between the two cups, and Char pressed the big red RECORD button as he pulled his jacket more comfortably around him.

“Can I get a beer?” The scruffy looking ex-detective squinted across the table at Sput, the younger looking of the two cops conducting the interview. Sput glanced over at Charborg, a brief look of panic crossing his face.

“It’s 10 in the morning,” Char answered for him, and the man scratched at the beard stretching across his chin. He sucked in his cheek.

“Are the liquor stores not open yet?”

“Just…” Char had already conducted three similar interviews in the past days. He was not looking forward to going through another one. “Answer our questions, and you can go get your own drinks.” The man chuckled, interlacing his hands and placing them on the table.

“Then you two ain’t getting shit.” Charborg exhaled, rubbing his forehead with his palm, leaning into the table.

“What kind?”

Twenty minutes later, with an even more annoyed Char and a disgruntled Sput, the man was cracking open a beer, the foam spilling over onto the floor. 

“Want one?” The man chuckled, and Char added the spill onto the long list of things that this man had done so far that was going to be in his report. Without an answer from either cop, the man took a long sip, finally placing the can down with a smile. “So what is it that you boys dragged me in here for?” Char’s eyes flicked to the recorder, making sure that the tape was rolling.

“We had a little incident down in Dallas. Lost paperwork, that kind of executive thing.” Char made sure to keep his voice even. The man’s stare was just a little bit unnerving. “We’re just making sure all the records are complete.”

“Shoot.”

“You are former Detective Keenan-“ Sput began, before being interrupted.

“Criken. Call me Criken.” Char noticed the rigidity in his shoulders, the flinch as Sput had listed off his previous title.

“Okay,” Sput trailed off slightly, his voice faltering from the interruption. “Criken. You were lead investigator of the Deadly Sins murder case, correct?” Criken slowly nodded, his focus away from the two. “This was your first case as a detective, correct?” Criken laughed, a short sound that darkened his face. 

“They knew it was too big of a case for a newbie, probably guessed it would go cold in a few weeks, knock my ego down a few notches.” He took another swig of the beer. “I guess that’s why they brought in Tomato.”

“Jared?” Sput almost whispered, directing the question at Charborg, who nodded his head yes. Criken was too deep in thought to notice the exchange. Char adjusted the microphone as Criken seemed to lose himself in his memories. If this was the start of a story, Char wanted to make sure he got every bit of it.

“Criken!” A voice boomed across the station, causing Criken to scatter the file of paperwork he was just holding across the desk that he was now able to call his own. Criken had worked hard to carve out a name that was his own, not one that belonged to anyone else. He could feel his face go beet red as he rushed to collect the mess before making his way to the chief’s office. Strippin was standing, talking casually with an unfamiliar figure. As Criken entered the room, both of them stopped their conversation, instead facing Criken. He swallowed hard.

“This is the guy?” The stranger asked, gesturing with his thumb to Criken. Boston dripped from his words, and Criken felt himself nervously shifting from side to side.

“Criken, this is Tomato, Boston Police Department. He’s down here on reassignment for a few months.” Strippin watched Criken’s face for a reaction. “He’ll be helping you on your first case.”

“My first case?” Criken repeated.

“Are you deaf? Yeah, we got a body.” Tomato is indignant, and Criken looked from Strippin to Tomato.

“Go,” Strippin mouthed. Criken took a deep breath.

“I won’t let you down sir.”

“Yeah you will, just get out there,” Strippin joked as the two head out of his office. He sat, and for a moment he gets an overwhelming feeling of dread, but easily shakes it off. The report coming in had been strange, but nothing that he felt Criken couldn’t handle. Worst case, he would have the whole thing wrapped up in a month. 

Criken had to run to keep up with Tomato, who had already reached the driver’s side of his car, pulling his sunglasses down. As he slid in and started the engine, Criken grabbed the door handle to the passenger door, finding it locked. Tomato rolled down the window, his eyes looking out through the windshield. 

“If we’re going to be working together, I’ve got three rules.” He held up one finger. “Number one: no music in the car. Number two: no talking with me about the case outside of work. And number three.” He pushed his sunglasses up, finally staring Criken down. “No conspiracy theories.” Criken nodded quickly in agreement, and hears the door unlock. He yanked the door open, jumping in as Tomato pulls away, spraying dirt and dust as he spins out in the parking lot. Criken takes a breath. It’s going to be a long few weeks. 

The site was 15 minutes away, and the two sat in silence for the ride. For Tomato, the silence is reflective and calming. Criken might as well be tearing his own skin off. The silence left him with his own thoughts that swirled and twisted around his mind like vices. Criken had always been able to pick up on subtleties, it had made him a good cop, and what Strippin picked out to be a good detective. But it wasn’t a gift he was able to turn off easily. Maybe if Criken had more ambition, he would have been an analyst for the FBI. But family history barred him from that job opportunity. 

So he was here, stuck in the middle of nowhere Texas, riding shotgun with a probably has-been detective that had much better things to do, working a case that would probably go cold in two weeks. 

Criken rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the trees outside his window, flying by at an alarming rate. At least it was a job. And it was more than he could say for a lot of the people his age in the town. Criken felt Tomato brake slightly, and glanced back at the road. A strangely dense fog seemed to have descended around the field, and as Tomato got out of the car, he pulled his jacket on, the air giving everything a clammy coldness. Criken did the same. The “police” lettering was almost glowing across his shoulders as Tomato shut the door, and the two began the walk towards the yellow tape. 

They had arrived. 

The field was both familiar and unfamiliar to Criken. Unfamiliar in that he had never stepped foot in this crop before and he had never talked to the farmer that was clearly distraught about what he had found in the corn. Familiar in the sense that once you grow up and play around enough fields of crop, they all feel the same. They all smell sweet like new growth and sour like fertilizer, and were much noisier than people expected. Corn and wheat rustle, their stalks brushing against each other, like a whisper in an ancient language forgotten by humans. Barley and clover, and all those smaller plants almost bubble, the ground moving slowly with the growth of roots. Criken had only made the mistake once of bringing a date to a big open field for a night he thought would be fun. Turns out, it’s usually not the farmers that will scare you out of the crops. She never talked to him again. 

Tomato repeated Criken’s name, and he returned to the present, blinking a few times as Tomato glared at him in concern. 

“Farmer said he found the body around 5 this morning, when he went out to investigate birds circling.” 

“Crows,” Criken pointed with his pencil, noticing the black birds still circling and plucked his pad of paper from his bag, beginning his notes. Tomato didn’t comment, instead leading the way through the corn, pushing stalks to the side as they made their way to the crime scene. “Why would they call detectives for just a body?” Criken inquired, but as Tomato stepped into the small clearing of crops, he answered his own question. “What the fuck…” Criken whispered, the exclamation completely involuntary as he stared at the scene in front of him, not really believing his own eyes. 

The corn had been flattened in a perfect circle, and the body was positioned in the middle, wrapped in a white sheet. His hands came together in prayer on his chest, and some kind of mask covered his face. White flowers were scattered around the body, and as Criken took a step closer, he could see that the man’s hands had been severed, only to be sewn back on. The stitches was big but deliberate. There weren't many flies, or that bad of a smell, and Criken guessed that the body must have been cleaned beforehand. He took another step forward, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. 

“Do we know who it is?” Criken asked out loud as Tomato followed suit, taking out his gloves. 

“No wallet, no ID. Farmer doesn’t recognize him. Judging from the elaborate set-up, he was more than likely not killed here.” 

“Maybe he didn’t recognize him because he was wearing a mask?” Criken shrugged, and Tomato shot him a look that meant, “_ don’t be smart with me.” _ So instead, Criken started to sketch the mask in his notebook. It was almost white, painted carefully like an antique doll. Tomato stood over the face, trying to make sense of the set-up, and Criken carefully leaned down, grasping the edge of the mask and pulling it off. He yelped in surprise and jumped back at the reveal of the man’s face. 

“Huh,” was all Tomato could say as they both stared at the expression of horror stuck on the man’s face, his eyes gouged out. Criken hastily placed the mask back down and straightened himself up, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “What are you thinking Rookie? I heard you’re like some kind of psychic or something.” 

“What do you mean?” Criken had gotten so lost in the creepy nature of the body that he had almost forgotten he was working. 

“I mean, I’ve heard you pick up things people miss, so what’s the deal? Is this satanic? Are we looking for a cult?” Tomato folded his hands across his chest, and Criken watched the movement with feigned interest, sucking in a quick breath. He had never liked that word. 

“I’m not sure,” Criken lied. “It’s really early still, but I’ll probably have more when we get a cause of death.” 

“Okay,” Tomato agreed, examining the body again. “No signs of blunt force trauma, but it could be hidden with the...ya’ know?” 

“Yeah.” Criken didn’t force a conversation, and was glad for the first time to see the white and blue coroner’s van pull up. The usually bubbly medical examiner stopped in her tracks at the sight of the grizzly body. The other examiner gripped her shoulder, his camera swinging around his neck. 

“It’s okay Bree,” He breathed, and Criken watched her physically relax, her shoulders lowering. She inhaled deeply, unpacking her own camera without breaking gaze with the body. 

“I’m okay,” She smiled, taking a picture. They worked their way around the scene, each flash etching another image of the scene into his mind. Bree picked up the mask, carefully dropping it into a plastic evidence bag. If she had been spooked by the face, she hid the fact very well. “Dave,” She said, pointing to a spot on the man’s arm, and Dave carefully stepped over, squatting down to take a picture. 

“Not sure,” Dave began as he stood up. “But we could have some blood here.” Tomato nodded a ‘good job,’ before the two went back to work, sweeping the crime scene. “Let’s get him packed up,” Dave finally stated, and Bree grabbed a body bag from her kit. The two worked fast, and Criken usually didn’t stay around to watch, but some part of him today was morbidly curious. They unrolled the black bag, laying it next to the body. Both examiners were already wearing gloves, and Bree delicately unzipped the bag. Then, with a heave, they gripped the body at its head and feet and lifted it into the bag, which the other examiner promptly zipped closed. 

“Wait,” Criken held out his hands, his body frozen as he stared at the grass where the body had lain. Everyone at the scene froze as well, turning to face Criken. “Do you see that in the grass?” Criken pointed to the indent where the man’s back was. Tomato warily stepped over, peering into the flattened corn. He tilted his head back and forth, trying to figure out what the symbols were. 

“11:11.” Tomato stood up straight. “It’s burned into the ground.” No one said anything else, the fog feeling even thicker than when they got there. Dave took another picture, the flash like lightning in the middle of a thunderstorm. “Okay, let’s try and figure out who this guy was,” Tomato had decided that the scene was done, and made a vague shooing gesture to the two medical examiners, raising his eyebrows at Criken. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.” 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,” Criken laughed as he repeated the line. He took another sip of beer. “I guess Tomato was right. This was a bad fucking case. Cursed almost from the beginning.” 

“How so?” Charborg asked, leaning forward on his elbows. Criken took a swig of beer, swishing the mouthful in his cheeks. Sput wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

“The moment I stepped out of that car, I could feel that this wasn’t going to be a regular case. You know that gut feeling, that drop when you step out onto your front porch and can tell, even before the clouds form and the wind picks up, that there’s going to be one hell of a storm?” Criken smiled. “That’s the feeling I got. And the scene almost immediately confirmed it.” 

“Then why did you lie?” Sput questioned, and Criken shrugged. 

“Tomato had insisted that he didn’t want any conspiracy theories.” Suddenly, he leaned forward, tapping his beer can with a strange certainty. “This wasn’t no satanic ritual, or even cult activity. I had dealt with that before.” A light seemed to pass over Criken’s face, and Char flashed back to Criken’s file. “But there was something...biblical about the scene.” Char let out a chuckle. 

“Biblical?” He repeated. He had seen the photos, gone over them a hundred times. There was nothing saintly about them. 

“The circle, the white shawl, the mask. The hands folded into prayer,” Criken tapped at the table. “Daisies. That’s what the flowers were. Native to the area, and enough florists sold them that it didn’t help us narrow anything down. Do you know what daisies symbolize?” Criken paused. 

“Innocence.” Sput answered, and Char glanced over in surprise. Sput looked a little embarrassed, red rising in his cheeks. “Sorry, one of my sisters wanted to be a florist and I used to read her books.” 

“Yeah,” Criken smiled. “Innocence, purity.” Criken finished his beer, opening up another. “You know what that guy was?” 

“So he’s from here,” Criken thought out loud, leaning back in his chair. Because if he wasn’t… It had been almost a week and a half and still nothing.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t narrow the search.” Tomato sat on Criken’s desk. “And there’s been no missing person’s filed recently that match his description.”

“Okay, but just in case, have someone widen the search, see if there’s any in the surrounding towns.” Tomato was sifting through the small amount of evidence from the scene, glancing through the plastic bags. They had both gone through them a hundred times. No fingerprints, no hair, no blood. The spot that Dave had found on his skin had turned out to be paint, so no DNA there.

“Hey,” Criken swiveled in his chair. “Where’s the closest paint store?”

“Kid, I don’t know the area.”

“Right, uh…” Criken did a quick search on his computer. “Michael’s Hardware,” Criken answered his own question. “Let’s go.”

“Hold up,” Tomato put a hand on Criken’s chest, keeping him in his seat. “This is barely a lead. It’s more a thread you’re grasping at here.”

“It’s something,” Criken huffed defiantly. He was tired of sitting around and talking. He wanted to go. Tomato squinted, studying Criken’s face.

“I guess I can’t argue with that.” Tomato released Criken, and they stood, heading to the door. They both grabbed the handle at the same time and Tomato smiled, but there was venom behind his teeth. “After you,” he let go, and Criken once again felt like this case was going to be the death of him. 

“Tomato’s always like that. Always testing me,” Criken rolled the edge of the can on the table. His voice was quieter, less gruff, hiding something. For a moment, Char saw the man behind the curtain, the one that Criken was trying so hard to hide. It was gone as quickly as it appeared as Criken cleared his throat, making eye contact with Sput. “But that’s how they all are, am I right?” Sput laughed as a defense mechanism as Criken continued. 

The store was right off the main drag, stuck between a liquor store and a laundromat, all of them matching in color and wear. There was only one other car in the parking lot as they pulled in, the midday sun beating down on them, reflecting off of any metal surface and causing Criken to almost close his eyes. 

The bell rang as they opened the door, and Criken opened his eyes in relief in the darkness. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, as old wiring does, as the two of them made their way to the front counter. An older man stood there, stacking flashlights. As they got closer, Criken could read his nametag: Michael. Criken quickly slid his sunglasses on. The man looked up, a nervous smile on his face. 

“Hello. How can I help you?” He fretted as they reached the counter. Tomato showed the man his badge and he instantly composed himself. “Oh sorry, your friend looks like this man that comes in here and bothers me for birdhouses. I keep having to tell him that I don’t have anymore.” Tomato sent Criken a side-eye. Criken, meanwhile, was trying his best to avoid eye contact, staring at the ceiling.

“We’re wondering if you recently sold any red paint.” Tomato leaned nonchalantly against the counter. The man reached under the counter and pulled out a large book. 

“If someone bought red paint in the last six months, it would be in here.” He placed the book on the counter, creating a loud thump and a nice little cloud of dust. Criken and Tomato shared a look of exasperation. 

“It was your idea,” Tomato reasoned, and Criken groaned, opening the book and beginning the painful process of going through each entry. After what felt like years, he got what he was looking for. 

“Here,” Criken pointed excitedly. “Two weeks ago, a purchase for 20 gallons of crimson red.” 

“Oh yeah,” Michael piped up. “I remember that. Some church guy came in. They were repainting one of the rooms.” Tomato stared daggers at the man. 

“Thank you for that valuable information now,” Tomato drawled, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “What church?” Michael shook his head. 

“Don’t remember. But his name should be in the book.” Criken looked back at where his finger was pointing. He read across the line. 

“Gregory...Aldred?” Criken questioned as Tomato wrote the name. He then took out the photo of the john doe they had laying in the morgue. 

“Was this the guy?” Tomato held the picture up for Michael. He jumped at the sudden appearance of a dead body. 

“No, that wasn’t him,” Michael sighed as he caught his breath. 

“Thank you,” Tomato turned away. “For nothing,” he griped, and Criken raced to catch up as he left the store. “Can you look him up?” Tomato asked as they reached the car, Criken didn’t answer, already checking his phone. 

“There’s a Baptist Church down the road that mentions him as their priest,” Criken informed, and Tomato threw his head back with a groan. 

“I hate priests.” He got in the car, not allowing for any kind of question. Criken opened his door and slid in as well. “Shady pricks,” Tomato mumbled, as if that was further explanation. Criken opened his notebook, continuing the sketch in his notebook. Tomato rolled down the windows, his A/C hadn’t worked in years. Criken didn’t mind. At least it was white noise as opposed to the usual silence that filled the car. 

The church parking lot was full, and as they parked outside Criken felt a lump form in his throat. It was hard to avoid religion living in the deep south, but Criken had tried his hardest. Still, churches had always made him uneasy. Too hot, smelling like old people and older books, filled with booming voices yelling about the end of the world. It had been a while since he had been back. Tomato seemed to sense the hesitation in Criken. 

“I can just go in if you want,” He offered, the nicest thing he had said since they had met. Criken glanced from Tomato to the large wooden doors. 

“Just give me a minute,” Criken breathed, and Tomato shrugged. 

“Suit yourself,” Tomato hopped out, slamming the door. Criken watched him saunter up the stairs, opening the church doors. Briefly, Criken could see the stained glass above the altar and the lines of pews. Tomato became a silhouette, bathed in a heavenly light. Then the doors shut and Criken breathed again. Slowly he opened the car door and made his way up the steps, one by one. As he opened the doors, he was hit with a wave of heat. 

“But they did not listen or pay attention; instead, they followed the stubbornness of their evil hearts. So I brought on them all the curses of the covenant I had commanded them to follow but that they did not keep,” The priest bellowed, walking back and forth in front of his captive audience. Criken shook his head. Seemed like nothing had changed. Tomato was standing off to the side, and Criken was actually grateful to see his angry face. The priest continued his sermon, but Criken wasn’t listening anymore. He had learned to tune out that kind of background noise a while ago. 

“Tomato,” he whispered, turning his back to the priest so he was speaking closer to Tomato’s ear. “The 11:11.” He gestured to the front of the room with his thumb. “It’s a bible verse.” In unison, Criken and the priest recited the verse, although Criken was merely mouthing along. 

“Therefore this is what the Lord says: ‘I will bring on them a disaster they cannot escape. Although they cry out to me, I will not listen to them.” The priest continued to talk, and Criken raised his eyebrows. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” Tomato pulled down his sunglasses, actually looking shocked. “How the Hell did you know that?” Criken looked away, turning back to the front. 

“I’ve spent my fair share of time in church.” Tomato didn’t press the issue. The priest finally seemed to finish his sermon, and everyone rose. “Let’s get this over with.” 

As they approached the front, people were filing in and around, some stopping to talk with the priest. He was young, probably around Criken’s age, with thin round glasses and a hopeful look to his eye. As they continued down the aisle, he seemed to notice them, making eye contact with a smile. 

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, his arms open. “What brings you here today?” 

“Do you know this man?” Tomato went straight to the point, and the priest instantly pushed Tomato’s hand down. 

“Not here.” He glanced to the few people still in the benches. “Not now.” Tomato looked like he was about to argue, but the priest gestured with worried eyes to a side room, and they followed. As the priest closed the door, he let out a worried sigh. “Where is he? Was there an incident?” 

“Incident?” Tomato seemed to almost mock. “The guy is dead.” 

“Dead,” the priest repeated, his tone much lighter than before, and relief flooded his features. “Thank you,” he whispered, briefly bringing his hands together in prayer. 

“What?” Criken took a step forward. “A man’s dead and you’re thankful?” A deadly look crossed the priest’s face, and Criken leaned back. 

“You don’t know what kind of monster that man was. To his wife, to his own child.” He looked down. “I didn’t know at first, had him helping out around the church, but when I finally tried to bring in the police, and you know what they did? Nothing!” He screamed, his anger flowing freely. “He would come to pick them up, I saw the way he looked at the other kids.” There was a hatred to his words that Criken didn’t know could be contained in a holy man. He began to cry, but it turned into can almost hysterical laugh. “I’m glad he’s dead!” 

“Father,” Criken uttered, trying to bring the man back to earth. “Do you know where the man was staying?” The man sniffled, grabbing a scrap of paper, and scribbling down a note. 

“Here. I pray his house is burned down when you get there.” 

“Not very priest-like,” A side comment that Sput caught himself mumble. Criken laughed. 

“No, but I respected that. At least he showed his morals. Most just say...pray.” Criken spat the word like it burned his tongue. “He gave us the first solid information in the case. We had been floundering for a while, and he gave us just enough water to breathe.” 

“This looks like the kind of place some sicko would hole up.” Tomato put the car in park as both of them stared at the decrepit house in front of them. They had driven down through the marshes, out a dirt road until they reached the address from the priest. The Spanish moss hung low around the driveway, and as Tomato shut off the car, they sat for a moment in the quiet. 

“Fuck!” Criken jumped as a big black bird landed on the hood. It tilted its head back and forth, making eye contact with Criken. It cawed before extending its wings and taking off. Criken caught Tomato reaching for his gun, both of them watching the bird circle in the sky. 

“I don’t like the feel of this place,” Tomato groaned, pushing his door open. Criken shared the feeling. Tomato fully drew his gun as they both approached the door. Criken fumbled around for his, drawing it as Tomato knocked, the sound echoing through the small house. “Hello?” He called out to no answer. He knocked again before the door creaked, slowly swinging open. 

“Guess it’s unlocked,” Criken felt like his throat was full of cotton. There was no reason to be scared. The man that lived here was dead, currently residing in the freezer back at the station. No one was here. But there was something about the sweet smelling flowers out front and the moss that fell over the driveway and the silence that filled the hot air that made Criken feel like he was being watched. 

The main room was dark, and Criken pulled out his flashlight, swinging it around the room. Newspapers and empty plates and books and clothes were piled everywhere, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. As Tomato took another step into the room, Criken’s flashlight fell onto the opposite wall. 

“What the fuck,” Criken hears himself whisper, trying to make sense of the web of pictures and string and notes that scattered the yellow peeling wall. Tomato sheathed his gun, pulling out his own flashlight as they both approached. Polaroids, tied together with red string. Newspaper clippings depicting different kidnappings in the area. Some of the pictures were crossed off, all had information about the person in the picture. Except for one. 

Criken kneeled down, pulling on a rubber glove as he examined the photo closer. It was the only one without any additional information, but almost all the lines were connected to it. He squinted. The photo seemed to be of a young man from the waist up. He was wearing a yellow sweater that wasn’t far off from the wallpaper in this house, covering his face with his arm and hand. The only thing visible was his hair, a straw blonde, and the edge of his cheek, showing high cheekbones. Criken lifted the photo, seeing if there was writing on the back. 

“Doll face.” Criken read, the words muffled in the stale air of the cabin. 

“Doll face?” Tomato repeated, shining the flashlight at Criken’s face. Criken held a hand up to block the blinding light, but Tomato was already swinging the light away. “Let’s check the backyard.” Criken followed, glad to be out of the dark and musty one room cabin. The backyard revealed nothing else, and they were both were about to examine the shed when Tomato’s radio crackled to life. 

“Uh, boys?” The voice was staticy and quiet, and Tomato groaned as he paused, turning the radio up to respond. 

“What?” 

“There’s another one.” Strippin’s voice was tired, and Criken felt a chill run up his spine. 

“Another what?” Tomato swallowed, and Criken felt that he already knew the answer. 

“Another body.” 

Criken stopped talking for a moment, staring off at the windows to the bullpen, his beer clasped gently between his hands. 

“This was the body that blew this case to the national news.” Criken slowly turned the can, using it as a distraction from his own mind. He stopped, making eye contact with Char, burning holes in him with his stare. “This wasn’t some backwoods pedo. This was a man of office, someone with a name.” Sput gasped almost inaudibly, realization dawning across his face. 

“The crime scene was similar, with small differences between the two bodies.” 

“The same white cloth, but a different mask,” Dave pointed out before snapping a photo. The medical examiners were circling the body like sharks to dying prey, snapping photos and gathering evidence. 

“His hands are still attached,” Bree noticed, and Criken kneeled. Mushrooms had begun to grow around the body, and before Criken could turn and open his mouth, Dave answered. 

“They’re _ Hebeloma syrjenssae _. They like the high nitrogen content of decomposing bodies.” Dave moved one of the mushrooms, revealing bundles of something else. “Huh,” Dave muttered, letting himself get closer. “And this looks like basil. It most definitely didn’t grow on it’s own.” 

“Basil?” Criken stood close to Tomato, the pair taking in the entire scene. “Why basil?” Dave shrugged, standing back up. “Time of death seems to be about 5 days ago, judging from the decomposition present. 

This body had been found by a hiker, the body arranged in a small, rotting church off the main drag. The floor was dirt, and a white circle had been drawn around the body, which was splayed out, its arms and legs spread wide. Underneath the body, a star seemed to have been drawn in the same white paint. 

“Not a star,” Criken whispered out loud, causing Tomato to glance over. 

“What?” Tomato asked for clarification, and Criken felt his blood run cold. 

“It’s a pentagram under his body.” Dave and Bree glanced from Criken to the corpse. “Not just any pentagram.” Criken felt his vision blur. “I need to go.” 

‘Criken,” Bree called out, her face a mask and Criken turned back. “He’s got a fresh tattoo on his gums.” She gently separated his lips, letting Dave take a picture. “2:8.” Criken’s hand tightened into a fist. 

“Eden,” Criken spat the word like it was a hot coal in his mouth. “I need to pay someone a visit.”


	2. Derecho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (\ də-ˈrā-(ˌ)chō \\): a large fast-moving complex of thunderstorms with powerful straight-line winds that cause widespread destruction; Spanish for “straight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter's plot relies heavily on another au that I've written....it's not required that you read that to understand this one, but it might add a layer of depth sdjklhfs ( https://crunkadilewrites.weebly.com/the-beginning.html ) btw, its a choose your own adventure thing, have fun!

The door buzzed and Criken winced as the door unlocked, the guard to the cell pulling it open. It had been a hard night’s drive to Clearview Psychiatric Hospital, and Criken knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. He pulled his long coat tighter as the guard nodded. Criken continued through the metal detector and signed in for a visit, and the man at the counter pointed down the hallway. Criken followed.

Ten years. His footsteps echoed off the concrete floor, and the lights seemed to hum above his head. The place hadn’t changed, still unwelcoming, still smelling of astringent, still quiet as a morgue. Guards lined the hallways, and as they continued, Criken couldn't help but think that they were going in circles. He felt panic well up in his throat, like this was some kind of elaborate trick, but he pushed his fingernails into his palm, forcing himself to stop spiraling. 

Criken was out here, free. _He_ was in there. An inch of glass separated them. Criken was safe, like he had been for 15 years. The guard stopped walking, entering a code on the door and sliding a card, the lock flashing green. He pushed the door in, and allowed Criken to enter. 

“Knock when you want out,” the guard proposed as if Criken might decide to stay there. 

“Will do,” Criken flashed him a thin lipped smile before the guard shut the door once again, leaving Criken alone with the patient. 

Criken cleared his throat, and the man turned. He was tall and lanky, thinner than he should’ve been. His hair was well groomed, but a scruffy beard stretched across the lower part of his face. His glasses were an older design, showing the man’s age but he didn’t look, he couldn’t be that old. His hands and feet were handcuffed, and he was attached with a wire to the wall, allowing him a half circle of freedom. A red line on the floor showed how far Criken should go. 

“Mr. Mosimann.” Criken was short, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their shaking. 

“Son.” A smile grew on the man’s face. “It’s been too long.” 

“Not long enough,” Criken mutters. “I’m not here for a social visit.” He can’t help but let his eyes wander to the walls of the cell, which have been adorned with drawings and diagrams. Criken recognized most of them. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Sput held up his hands, interrupting Criken’s story. Both Charborg and Criken stared at him. “Your father,” Sput pointed. “Is the famed New Eden cult leader?” Criken nodded as Sput sat back in stunned silence. “What was it like?” 

“Sput!” 

“What?!” Char made a few noises of exasperation before Criken shrugged. 

“It’s fine.” Criken leaned forward, his chin close to the table, his breath smelling like booze. “I grew up at Eden. I don’t remember much, besides the odd flashes and nightmares. He raised me like any other father, raised me to be his successor.” Criken leaned back into his chair, his arms raised now to his sides in a grand gesture. “I was supposed to be his Adam.” 

“His what?” Char asked. He knew they were getting off topic, but it wasn’t every day that you got first hand accounts from one of the most popular and horrific cases of this century. 

“Adam. The first.” Criken continued, as if those words made sense. “His perfectly crafted leader of the next society.” Criken took a deep swig of his beer. “An Adam, an Eve, and the Antichrist.” That word sent chills down Char’s spine. Of course, there were no official reports about the alleged Antichrist, Char didn’t even believe it. But rumors had always circulated that Keenan had found him. A man with the horns of a goat. Criken laughed, the sound hollow and grating. “Back to my father, right?” 

Char cleared his throat. “Of course, right.” 

Criken watched the man he used to know as father take a step closer, then one more, until he was standing right on the other side of the red line. His head turned slightly to the side, as if he was examining the person he liked to call son. 

“My boy,” He smiled, and Criken kept his face neutral. “My prodigal son.” His voice brought flashes of hidden memories to Criken’s mind, and he pushed them back down. 

“I know that someone visited you in the past month,” Criken ignored his father’s statement. “There was a pentagram under a body. An Eden Pentagram.” His father smiled, flashing a bright set of fangs. “The clove basil was a nice touch as well.” Criken snarked. _“Gratissimum.”_ He spat. 

“Of course I had a visitor. It was you.” Criken couldn’t hide his anger this time.   
  
“I haven’t seen you in ten years,” Criken growled, his hands shaking, stepping just a little closer. Keenan clicked his tongue. 

“Careful, or they’ll chain you up as well.” Keenan began to pace, keeping his dark eyes locked on Criken. “You wanted some insight. Insight that I was more than happy to give.” He shrugged, the handcuffs around his wrists jingling slightly with the movement. 

“Why?” Criken’s voice strained as he felt his stability waver. 

“You wanted to know more about yourself.” 

“We’re done here.” Criken turned to leave, his hand raising to knock on the cell door to leave. 

“Keenan.” Criken closed his eyes, his breath catching as his father spoke his real name. Criken froze. “He came to me to put together pieces of a riddle. This piece was for you.” He paused, as if thinking, and Criken could hear him breathe deeply. “Cardinal sins, my son.” Criken didn’t respond, knocking twice and the door in front of him slid open. He walked out, turning back to face his father once more. 

“Goodbye Mr. Mosimann.” Criken spun on his heels, listening as the cell door slowly shut again. 

“And the Lord planted a garden eastward in Eden! And there he put the man whom he had formed!” The door shut, the metallic slam echoing through the facility. Criken closed his eyes as he returned to the front desk, flashing his badge to the man there. 

“I need to see the guest log and security tapes from the last person that visited Mr. Mosimann.” The security guard nodded in understanding, pulling out the handwritten book and placing it on the counter for Criken to look through before he began to search through the tapes for the security footage. 

Criken scanned the book, looking for the numbers of his father’s cell. “75944,” Criken muttered to himself over and over again, his finger running down the columns. _There. _He followed the line over and paused. His own name was written in the line, in his own handwriting. 

“Sir,” The guard called for Criken’s attention, and Criken looked up from the book as the man turned the screen to show him the file. “This is what I have.” The man hit play, and Criken watched a figure dressed in a long coat sign in at the front desk. He seemed to know where the cameras were, walking down the hallways and keeping his head turned at specific moments. Finally, as he stood in front of his father’s cell, he looked to the camera over the door, staring straight into it, and then slowly, slowly, smiling. 

Criken had seen that face before. He pulled out his phone, snapping a photo of the paused video before nodding his thanks to the guard. As he walked out of the gates to the hospital, his phone buzzed to life. 

_Three missed calls from Bree._ Criken pressed the call button and Bree picked up on the second ring. 

“Hey, I just found something really-” 

“You need to get in here.” Bree’s voice was deadly serious, and Criken was instantly concerned. 

“What happened? Are you okay?” He picked up the pace, opening his car door and quickly starting the engine.

“I’m fine,” she dismissed. “We found something in the body.” Criken hung up, slamming his foot down on the gas. 

Criken did the two hour drive in an hour and a half, probably scaring way more people than necessary, bursting into the morgue completely out of breath. Bree lifted her hands in ignorance. 

“I don’t even want to know,” She raised her eyebrows as Criken approached the body, which had been covered in a white sheet. Bree lifted the sheet, revealing the cleaned corpse of the man from the church. His chest had been cut out cleanly and his organs removed, and Criken held his breath. He had never been completely comfortable in the presence of the dead. 

“When I removed his ribs and began to examine his inner organs, I noticed something strange.” Bree walked over to a silver bowl, her gloved hands lifting the soft, red piece of flesh up for Criken to see. “His stomach was huge. Irritated and inflamed, as if he had eaten a lot right before his death.” Bree put the stomach down and walked quickly over to the next steel table. “Inside his stomach were all these papers.” She waved her hands over around 10 sheets of regular sized printer paper in plastic bags, all of them filled with printed words. “Along with lacerations in his throat, I believe that he may have eaten these right before he was killed to hide some kind of evidence.” Criken felt something click, and he shook his head. 

“No,” He whispered. “The killer forced him to eat the paper.” Criken smiled at Bree. “Thank you.” She watched Criken leave, confused but continued her work. 

The precinct had one conference room, which was almost never in use. Criken waltzed in with a flourish, the files he had grabbed from his desk gripped tight in his arms. He stood in front of the blank whiteboard, trying to visualize his plan. He had a lot of work to do. 

“How late were you at the station?” Char asked, and Criken tapped his fingers on the table. 

“Who knows. Time doesn’t have much meaning to me anyway.” Criken laughed, a darkness hiding behind the melody. “Tomato would kill me for that comment. He was always making fun of me for that kind of thing.” A smile lingered on Criken’s face. “‘Stop saying weird shit,’” Criken imitated Tomato, contorting his face to look angry. He let out one more laugh before his grin dropped and he coughed, peering back over at Char. “I don’t sleep much anyway, but I was probably at the station making that board for 5 hours. By the time I was done, Tomato and I were the only ones left in the whole building.” 

Criken looked over the board once more, pictures and notes and various arrows and diagrams drawn between ideas. It was solid, at least in Criken’s mind. He took a step back, sitting in the chair he had dragged over to stand on to reach the upper corners of the board and felt himself get instantly tired. Before he could stop himself, his eyes were closing and Criken was fast asleep. 

The room smelled hot, and Criken’s clothes stuck to his body with sweat. He looked down and saw the white cotton shirt his father used to wear, except this one was dark with something wet. 

This wasn’t sweat. 

The candles around him seemed to glow brighter, and as Criken tried to move, he found his hands bound to the floor with cuffs. Panic rose in his throat, escaping as whimpers that seeped through his teeth. He could taste it now, the blood must be splattered across his face, the liquid making his wrists slippery in his restraints. He could hear chanting and voices float in from outside the room and he struggled harder, flailing from side to side, tears escaping from his eyes as he realized how fruitless his efforts would be. He hung his head in defeat, his breath coming in gasps, his heart beating furiously. A voice, clear as day, suddenly filled the room. 

“Sin must be punished.” 

“Go away!” Criken screamed back, his voice raspy in the thick heat. A black cloud filled his vision and a figure materialized in front of him. “No,” Criken whimpered, and the man grabbed Criken’s chin, his nails digging into his skin. 

“Face your fears Keenan,” His father smiled, a shining knife in his hand. 

“NO!” Criken screamed louder, and his vision faded to black before he opened his eyes. 

Someone was holding him. Criken was shaking, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming. 

“Kid, I’m here, you’re okay.” Tomato’s voice was muffled, and as Criken’s vision focused, he could see that they were on the floor of the bullpen, Tomato’s arms gripped tight around Criken, and Criken gripped onto Tomato twice as tight. In that moment he knew exactly what had happened. He still couldn’t speak, and let Tomato hold him for a little longer. 

It was 3:25. Tomato had sat Criken in his chair, wrapped in a blanket and made him a cup of coffee. Criken thanked him quietly as Tomato sat opposite him. 

“So,” Tomato folded his hands, resting them on his knees. “Want to tell me what that was?” Criken took a sip of coffee before explaining. 

“Night terrors.” Criken said the word carefully. “Vivid hallucinations that cause sleepwalking, sleep talking…” 

“I know what they are.” Tomato gently interrupted him. “What causes them?” Criken didn’t want to answer. “If we’re working together, I want to know these kinds of things so we can work better together.” 

“I thought you didn’t care about this kind of shit?” Criken half laughed, and Tomato scoffed. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Criken took another sip of coffee, letting the warmth soak into his palms. 

“PTSD.” Criken thought out his next words carefully. “Ever heard of New Eden?” Even saying the words make Criken’s skin crawl and Tomato’s eyebrows shot up at the mention. 

“Legendary case. Crazy shit.” 

“That...was my father.” Criken watched Tomato try and hide his surprise. 

“Not everyone’s family is perfect.” The response caught Criken off guard and he laughed, the type of laughter that bends you in half and leaves you red faced and breathless. When he was done, Tomato was staring at him, concern flashing in his eyes. He needed that. 

“I found something.” Criken stood, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. “You might not like it.” Tomato put a hand on Criken’s shoulder. 

“I’ll take anything at this point.” Criken led the way back to the conference room, and stood in front of his wall. 

“So I have a theory... “ Criken smiled, knowing that the phrase would piss Tomato off, and earned an eye roll in response. “Everything this killer is doing is intentional. There’s, there’s, meaning behind all of his sets, so to speak. He’s sending a message each time. Look,” Criken pointed to the first crime scene photos. “The whole picture is supposed to show innocence, but the man seemed to be anything but. Daisies were for innocence, white robes for purity, hands clasped in prayer. Even the corn he was found in represents rebirth. But the verse was about retribution.” Criken took a step to the side, pointing to a small list. “Meaning.” Criken breathed the word, and Tomato sighed. 

“What?” 

“This man represented lust. One of the seven deadly sins. Bree figured out what those papers were that the second victim swallowed. They were bank records, indicating an excessive amount of transfer between his public campaign funds and his own private bank account. The mushrooms around his body? Their rapid growth was about taking more than they need.” Criken smacked the photo. “He’s gluttony.” 

“Who’s that?” Tomato gestured with his chin to the photo in the middle of the board. 

“Dollface.” Criken took a deep breath. “That’s our killer. He visited my father three weeks ago and his photo was on the wall of our first victim.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Tomato, our killer thinks that he’s more than the law, he’s put it in his own hands for some reason to punish those that have escaped.” Criken realized that the longer he talked, the more his theory was making sense. 

“This is crazy,” Tomato seemed to not share the same opinion. Tomato sat next to Criken, staring up at the board Criken had covered through the night. It was quiet, the only noise was that of the few lights still on, creating a buzzing that coated the air in an almost comforting white noise. 

The main phone line rang, the sound feeling like a shock to both men, who jumped. Tomato was the first up, and he strode across the room and picked the phone up mid-ring. 

“Hello?” Criken heard a sudden tiredness in his voice. “What? Ma’am, please slow down.” Tomato gestured with his hands, as if the woman was there in the room as he tried to calm her over the phone. “Where are you? We’ll be right there.” Tomato hung the phone up and sighed. 

“What?” Criken put down his mug, and Tomato ran a hand through his own hair. 

“We’ve got another body.” Criken stood, but Tomato held out his hand. “No, you’re going to clean yourself up and meet me there.” Criken opened his mouth to protest, but Tomato’s stern expression stopped him. 

“Fine,” Criken begrudgingly agreed, and Tomato opened his desk draw, throwing him a bag. “What’s this?” Tomato grabbed his own coat off the back of the chair. 

“It’s my desk clothes.” As if that explained anything. “See you there.” Tomato left without another word and Criken headed to the bathroom.

The lights of the bathroom were brighter than the main room, but that didn’t make the place any less dingy. Criken opened the bag Tomato had thrown at him and pull out its contents. A shirt, jeans, a sweatshirt. A new toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and a razor. Criken arranged them neatly around the sink, turning the water up as hot as it would go. Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt, staring in the mirror at himself. He traced the small, circular scar that was like a bullseye on his shoulder, then followed the thinner, white line that followed his collarbone. His hand dropped and Criken finished taking off the shirt and threw it in a pile on the floor. 

The water was beginning to steam up the mirror, and Criken leaned down, splashing his face, closing his eyes and trying to scrub the sleep from his face. He rubbed the soap between his hands, covering his chin and cheeks with the bubbles before turning the water off. He held the razor gingerly between his hands and began to calmly shave, working his way across his face, the blade running across his skin and up his neck. Eventually he turned the water back on and rinsed his face, the water dripping onto his body as he grabbed paper towels. The shirt was going to be too big, but at this point Criken didn’t care. He slipped it over his head, examining it in the mirror. The words “Police Academy” were written across the front in large yellow letters, and as he changed into the jeans he tucked the front in, trying to make himself a little more presentable. The black jacket was even worse, hanging down past his hands, so he didn’t even bother zipping it up. He gathered his own belongings and exited the bathroom, throwing them on his desk and grabbing his phone.

One text from Tomato. It was the address, followed by a text: _I owe you._ Criken shoved his phone in his pocket before almost running out to the parking lot and getting in his car. The windshield was fogged up, and the sky was just barely beginning to lighten, morning still hours away. 

The red and blue flashing lights guided Criken the last mile down the road, Tomato’s car parked out front, the medical examiner’s van parked right next to it. Criken pulled in with a spray of gravel, squinting as the lights blinded him in the dark. 

“Criken,” Tomato’s voice called from the porch of the large house, and Criken made his way up the stairs, past a woman wrapped in a shock blanket. He lifted the yellow tape and walked into the house, Tomato walking in behind him. “Upstairs,” Tomato gestured. 

The scene wasn’t any more gruesome as the others, but there was something about the intimacy of it that made Criken’s stomach turn. This body was naked, allowing for full display of the carving on his chest. There didn’t seem to be anything deep or meaningful for this one: a swirling dollar sign carved into the man’s stomach. His face was covered with an almost comical mask, white with a black mustache; a Guy Fawkes mask. 

“Even I can figure this one out,” Tomato snarked as cameras flashed around them. The cuts on the stomach oozed, blood congealing in a puddle underneath the body. 

“This one’s different though,” Criken frowned, crouching down, tilting his head to the side. “The two other victims were killed someplace else and then arranged to be found.” Criken pointed at the man. “This one was killed here.” 

“The wife came home around 10 and didn’t suspect anything unusual until she came upstairs to go to bed and found him.” Tomato frowned into his notepad as Bree carefully removed the man’s mask, revealing a face contorted into horror. 

“He saw his killer.” Criken stated. 

“These slashes aren’t deep enough to kill, but they were done premortem,” Dave pushed the thermometer into the corpse’s flesh. “Time of death would be around nine, ten tonight.” He pulled the thermometer back out, glancing at Bree. “His teeth are clenched, and his salivary gland is enlarged.” Dave paused, sighing. “He may have been dosed with succinylcholine.” 

“Succin- what?” Criken stumbled over his own words. 

“It’s a paralytic agent. It works in under a minute, and a high enough dose would stop his heart,” Bree spoke up, the mask still in her hand as she stared intently at the man’s frozen face. Slowly, she looked up and made eye contact with Criken. There was a darkness that hid behind her usually bright eyes, a darkness that reached out, and Criken had the urge to reach back. “These cuts were made slowly and deliberately, not slashed.” When she spoke again, her voice seemed to be a thousand miles away. “He would have still been alive when the killer carved up his body.” 

They collected all the evidence they could, bundles of blood-soaked money leaving in evidence bags, finally followed by the corpse itself, wrapped nicely in its black body bag. Tomato and Criken were the last to go, and Criken was finally feeling the effects of the all-nighter, nearly falling down the stairs as they left, Tomato barely catching him, grabbing his shoulders, Criken going limp between his hands. 

“Hey,” There was a hint of concern that Criken was comforted by as Tomato’s eyes scanned Criken’s face. “I don’t need to drive you home, do I?” 

Criken smiled, shaking his head no. “I’m good, thanks.” Criken lied, but Tomato’s hands didn’t move, and Criken didn’t know if he wanted them too. They were solid and comforting and the only thing that seemed to be holding him to the earth right now. Tomato tightened his grip slightly before letting go, flashing a tired smile. 

“You did really good today, go get some rest.” He watched Criken descend the rest of the stairs before turning, walking back to his own car. Criken ambled slowly to his own car, sighing as he closed the door, sitting by himself in silence, glancing at the treeline, watching the faint glow of morning begin to creep over the shadowed tree tops. 

Somehow he made it home without incident, climbing his stairs, struggling to get the key into the lock before almost falling through the front door. He barely made it to his couch before collapsing, sleep overtaking his body. 

He woke up with the sun high in the sky, his phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. He didn’t remember taking it out of his pocket, and groaned knowing that it was more than likely almost dead. He pushed himself off, squinting as the sudden movement caused his head to spin. Criken stumbled his way to the counter, his vision finally going clear as he picked up his phone. 

10 missed calls from Tomato. 

As he unlocked the phone to call him back, Tomato called again, and Criken answered, allowing the agitation he was feeling seep into his words. 

“What is so important that you have to call me-” Criken rambled before he was cut off. 

“We got a hit.” 

Criken froze. “On what?” Tomato, the ever stoic detective, couldn’t even hide his excitement. 

“The picture.” 

Criken had never driven that fast, and as he pulled into the police station he braked hard, sliding on the loose gravel. 

“Shit,” he grumbled as he threw the car in park, slamming the door as he ran into the station.

“Dude, did you even sleep?” Tomato eyed Criken’s outfit. He was still in the clothes Tomato had given him yesterday. 

“Probably like, three hours, let’s go,” Criken clapped his hands together, and Tomato grimaced in return. 

“Yeah, okay. Someone called in after the last murder went public this morning.” Tomato handed Criken a piece of paper, and Criken looked at the number scrawled on it. “He said that he wouldn’t come in, but we could meet him somewhere.” Tomato flipped through papers that were scattered across his own desk, locating another post-it note. “The...Billy Goat Tavern?” Tomato read, and Criken took that note as well. “Do you know it?” 

Criken shrugged. “Not really. It’s across town, the place is well attended by locals, we always get tips that they’re running drugs out of there but can never prove anything.” Criken paused. “They also run a kind of hostel out the back.” 

“Huh,” was Tomato’s only comment as he grabbed his coat. “Well, let’s get moving.” Criken followed, and they got out to the parking lot before Criken stopped. Tomato reached his car before he noticed, turning back with a quizzical look across his face. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, and Criken felt a pit forming in his stomach. 

“Doesn’t this feel like a trap?” Tomato didn’t answer right away, but when he did he laughed a little too nervously. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be fine.” Criken didn’t say anything more, and got in the car, Tomato heading off to the Tavern. 

It wasn’t long before they were pulling into the parking lot, but they both stayed in the car as Tomato turned off the engine, eyeing the swinging sign. Criken jumped as someone knocked on the door’s window, and he examined the face in the glass. A head of dark, curly hair, with darker eyes. He was wearing a hoodie that seemed much too big, and kept glancing over his shoulder, unable to stand still. Criken pointed at the person, then mimed a phone call. The person nodded back furiously, and backed up as Criken opened the door, Tomato protesting in the background. 

The person was more a kid as Criken was able to examine him further, and seemed even more jittery as Tomato got out of the car. 

“Can we, can we go inside?” He asked, his voice shaky as he pulled his hands into his sleeves. 

“Yeah, of course,” Criken agreed, taking a step towards the tavern.

“Not there,” he quickly corrected. “Back here.” The kid disappeared around the corner, and Criken stepped to follow. 

“Excuse me?” Tomato hissed, grabbing Criken’s shoulder. “What happened to, ‘This could be a trap?’” Criken stared wide-eyed at Tomato before his eyes darted to where the kid had gone. 

“I feel as though we can trust him.” The ball in his stomach hadn’t disappeared, but it hadn’t tightened when the kid appeared. 

“What if we can’t?” Tomato seemed almost panicked, and Criken had a moment to think of what must have happened before that was causing Tomato to be so freaked out by this. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Tomato released Criken and they both walked around the corner, Tomato’s hand on his holster. The kid was waiting, and led them around to another side door. His anxiety had not lessened, and almost pushed the pair through the door. They were greeted by a dingy, poorly lit hallway. 

“This way,” the kid whispered and they obliged, following him to another door and he pulled out a key, unlocking it with a trained efficiency. As soon as he shut the door behind them he finally relaxed, and gestured to the single couch. “Sit?” He asked, and Criken peered at the piece of furniture. 

“Uh, no thanks.” Tomato made the decision for him. “We came to ask about-” 

“Bed?” At first, Criken thought he was offering another piece of furniture for them to sit on. “That’s what we called him.” The kid had a soft look to his face as he talked, his hands itching at the inside of his elbows. “He was...different in school. Everyone liked him, but there was something about the way he played when he was young that was distant.” He stopped, glancing at the ground. “We were friends, from kindergarten to the end of high school. He had lots of people that liked him, but I always thought I was his only friend.” The kid laughed, and the sound was empty as it bounced around the dim room. “He was smart too, way smarter than me. He was going to med school and I…” he trailed off, sniffling and then wiping his nose. 

“What’s with the Dollface name?” Tomato’s voice was strangely soft, the gruffness hidden behind a more caring, quiet tone. The kid gazed up, taking a deep breath. 

“It was a taunt.” His voice went down an octave, and Criken could sense the darkness behind that statement. “As we got older, Bed drew a lot of negative attention from people, especially hanging around me all the time.” Those words like daggers coming out of his mouth. “Those last year, he started to own that title. A face like porcelain hiding venom filled fangs.” The kid shook his head. “His words, not mine.” 

“Is-” Criken began to ask a question, but the kid seemed to have stopped listening. 

“I fucked my life up, and lost him.” Tears were forming in his eyes, and he hugged his own shoulders, slowly beginning to rock forward and back. “Maybe if, maybe I could’ve stopped this.” He slid down the wall, the tears now welling up and falling down his face, sobs escaping from his throat. Tomato and Criken glanced at each other in panic. It was Criken that closed the distance and kneeled in front of the kid, trying to comfort him. 

“Hey, hey, kid. It’s-” 

“Buck,” the kid bawled, his eyes large with tears as he looked over the edge of his oversized hoodie. “My name’s Buck.” 

“Okay Buck,” Criken breathed, his hands hovering over Buck’s shoulders. “You couldn’t have done anything.” Buck didn’t respond, and Tomato’s phone rung. 

“I gotta take this,” he sighed, walking out of the room. “Meet me back at the car,” Tomato leaned closer to Criken, glancing from the huddled form of Buck on the floor and back to Criken. As soon as Tomato left, Buck grabbed the loose fabric of Criken’s sleeves, pulling him tighter, until they were barely a hairs’ breadth away. 

"I can feel them clawing their way back in,” Buck’s eyes were wild like a cornered animal, and Criken tried to pull away but Buck’s grip was stronger. “You know, you spend so much time fighting with your demons you forget what it's like to win." 

“What do you mean?” Criken puzzled, and Buck looked even more scared. 

“I could’ve done something,” Buck whimpered, no longer crying. “He contacted me.” Each word was accentuated carefully, and Buck’s voice raised at the end, as if he was about to cry again. “He told me to meet him at this, this address. He wanted to talk to me.” Criken felt his blood go cold. 

“What’s the address?” 

Charborg pressed the red STOP button on the tape recorder before taking a deep breath. Criken had been silent for a few minutes, and neither Sput nor Char were willing to push the conversation forward at this point. They both knew what was coming. 

“We don’t have to go over this part,” Charborg interrupted, and Criken’s gaze fell slowly onto the senior officer. “These events seemed to have been outlined...extensively in multiple reports.” Criken pressed his tongue into his cheek, moving it from back to front as he gandered over the table at Char and Sput. He tapped twice before finishing the last beer. 

“You wanted a full report right?” Neither cop responded, and a dark laughter escaped Criken’s lips as he hung his head. 

“If you wish to skip the raid, we can.” Sput offered, and Criken raised his head, tilting his chin at the man. 

“Don’t want to skip the good bit though, do we?”


	3. Bankfull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (/baNGk fo͝ol/): The water level, or stage, at which a stream, river or lake is at the top of its banks and any further rise would result in water moving into the floodplain.

Criken’s smile fell, and he reached forward, pressing the RECORD button on the tape machine before grabbing the beer can in both hands, slowly twisting its shape.

“We went in with no backup. There was a certain urgency to both of us, an unspoken fear that this Dollface would strike again, and a hopefulness that we could be the ones to stop him. We both could feel it. This energy in the air, like when you can tell that a storm is coming long before the rain clouds form.”

“We went in with no backup. There was a certain urgency to both of us, an unspoken fear that Dollface would strike again, and a hopefulness that we could be the ones to stop him. We both could feel it. This energy in the air, like when you can tell that a storm is coming long before the rain clouds form.”

Criken left Buck in that back room, both of them clutching pieces of paper in their hands like it was their lifeline. In Buck’s hand was Criken’s phone number; in Criken’s hand was the address that Dollface had given Buck. Criken ran, slipping on the loose stones as he rounded the corner and catching up with Tomato. 

“What?” Tomato spun around, and Criken gasped to catch his breath. 

“Address.” Criken held out the paper, his hand shaking. “Dollface,” Criken coughed out, and Tomato took the paper like communion. 

“How do we know this is real?” Tomato glanced at the sky, the mid-afternoon sun beginning to fade as dark clouds moved in. Criken inhaled again, a new breeze bringing the scent of fresh rain somewhere in the distance. 

“We don’t. But if it is…” 

“This could be the breakthrough we need.” Tomato finished the sentence, staring at the paper before pocketing it. “We should go now.” Now Criken was the one to look at the clouds as the wind rose, the clouds swirling in the distance. 

“Why?” Tomato didn’t hear his question, instead heading straight to his car. Criken followed closely behind, and as he shut the door, Tomato answered. 

“The storm will wipe any physical evidence, if there is any. He knows that. We need to be there before that happens.” Criken nodded his understanding, and Tomato turned the key, the engine roaring to life. 

They drove, Tomato’s knuckles white on the steering wheel. Criken didn’t mind the quiet anymore, despite his inner voice being as loud as ever. It seemed that whenever he was with Tomato, the voice just seemed a little quieter. Another car passed them and Criken watched them pass in his mirror, the dark clouds on the horizon catching his gaze. The car turned and disappeared, but Criken was still focused on the smoky darkness that rose over the horizon. He could remember watching storms when he was little, sitting on the front porch with his father, first waiting for the change of the wind, then the temperature drop, and finally the clouds. His father would sit Criken on his lap, and they would count the seconds between the lightning, judging the distance. When one would get close he would bury his face in his father’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. 

“We’re the same as lightning, son.” His father would coo, trying to offer comfort. “Those heartbeats,” his father would place a hand on Criken’s chest. “They’re electrical, just like those flashes of light.” Criken would watch a little bit longer then, the rolling thunder interrupted by great flashes of lightning. “In the grand scheme, we all exist like lightning. Bright for just a moment before disappearing forever.” 

“Criken?” Tomato’s voice broke Criken’s train of thought, and he looked over to see Tomato glancing over in concern. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Criken managed to smile, despite the feeling of dread forming once again in his stomach. Maybe it was the changing pressure brought by the storm or the general nature of their drive, but Criken was uneasy. 

“I need you for this okay? Can’t have you flaking on this one.” 

“I know.” Criken assured. “I have your back.” 

Tomato laughed. “You better.” The rest of the ride was quiet, and they seemed to be racing the storm, the clouds steadily gaining as they finally pulled into the long, dirt driveway that matched the address that Buck had given them. They pulled down slowly, spanish moss hanging down, trees reaching across, the vegetation overgrown onto the already small path. A tree seemed to have fallen down and Tomato stopped the car, turning the engine off.

“Looks like this is as far as we can go,” Tomato grunted as he threw the door open, grabbing his gun and throwing his jacket on. Criken breathed, the knot in his stomach tightening. He followed suit however, following Tomato out of the car and climbing over the fallen tree. They walked the rest of the driveway in silence, the only sound their footsteps on the loose dirt.

The house seemed to be obscured by growth. The place looked abandoned, and as they got closer, the woods around the building seemed to quiet, as if the world was holding its breath. Even the sounds of the storm seemed to lessen, and Criken felt an odd sense of deja vu. 

Tomato tried to door, and after a few turns pushed it with his shoulder, and the frail door giving in and they were inside. Despite the light streaming in from the door, the house was darker than night, and both men illuminated their flashlights. Criken tried to hide his gasp. 

They walked further in, and the sounds from outside faded even further. The windows had been boarded over and covered and as Criken walked into what he imagined was the living room, his gun drawn, he found that the walls were covered in photos and trinkets. At first, it appeared that all the photos were different, but as he got closer, he realized with horror that they were of the same person. Different days, different outfits, different years it even seemed. The items were small, a rosary, a note, things that could’ve been lost or thrown away, but somehow found their way here. Criken slowly lowered his gun and kept roaming around the room, and distant thunder shook the whole house. 

“Criken,” Tomato yelped, and he followed the noise over to the next room, where Tomato was standing in front of a small section of wall. “Look.” 

On the wall was a photo of their last victim, taken after death. His face still contorted, the mask not yet placed to cover his death mask. Blood had not yet pooled as much around the body, and underneath was pinned a bloody hundred dollar bill. 

“This is the place, I guess,” Criken whispered, flipping around and shining his light on the opposite wall. There was newspaper clippings, printed out articles, various reports about the murders that were taped and hung, covering the wall. Over the papers however, painted in some kind of dark ink was the number seven, repeated over and over and over again. 

“Criken,” Tomato repeated, and Criken jumped, not realizing that Tomato had left the room, his voice floating in from down the hallway. Criken followed him again, and found him standing over an open panel in the floor, a faint light glowing from the bottom of the stairs. “You got me?” Criken steeled himself. 

“Of course.”

They both descended the stairs, the creaking of the old wood slowing their progress. As they went lower and lower, the smell of chemicals got stronger and stronger, and another smell began that Criken couldn’t quite place. The sounds from outside are gone completely now, their footsteps soft on the concrete floor. There’s a dripping sound that Criken hadn’t heard when they first entered the basement, but it seemed to be getting louder and louder. Shelves seemed to form a labyrinth through the basement, and the light seemed to be emanating from the center. Their progress was slow, Tomato clearing each corner before moving on, the smells and the sound and the light getting stronger and stronger. Criken began to notice a buzzing as well, and realized with a start that rain had begun to fall outside. 

Criken almost ran into Tomato as he stopped in the center of the basement, finally reaching the light. He peeked around Tomato and felt his skin crawl, his limited breakfast rising in his stomach. 

The chemical smell was almost overwhelming at this point, and Criken felt his eyes water as he tried to take in the gruesome scene. A long fluorescent tube hung over a silver, stainless steel table, casting a bright light over the body. Tomato moved first, pulling his shirt up over his mouth as he stepped towards the woman’s head. 

Thin fishing line hung like spiderwebs from the ceiling, tied around the woman’s wrists, her elbows, her neck, criss crossing together in a shimmering display to suspend the body in the air above the table. Her long, blonde hair hung loose and gently touched the table like threads of gossamer. That wasn’t the worst part. She was half dissected, her abdomen cut from her collarbone across and then down to her belly button, the flaps of skin hanging in the air as if invisible hands were holding them there. Organs spilled out and lay across the table and now Criken was able to place the mysterious smell from earlier: formaldehyde. Criken finally composed himself to take his own step forward and noticed the calmness of the woman’s face, almost as if she was sleeping. A white mask had been placed underneath where her head hung. 

They both spun as the trap door to the basement slammed shut and the light above their heads flickered off, leaving them to the blackness. 

“Tomato!” 

“Criken!” 

Criken fumbled around in his pocket for his flashlight, his heart beating faster and faster as lightning flashed outside. Tomato seemed to have found his flashlight first and Criken’s anxiety lessens for a second as it casts a cone of light towards Criken, and he could faintly see Tomato’s face, fear easily distinguishable in his dark eyes. Criken opens his mouth to say something but stopped.

Something moved behind Tomato. 

Criken is frozen with fear, he can’t even tell if it was his imagination playing tricks with him, but before he can decide, Tomato’s face contorts in pain and he groans. Even in the dark, Criken can see his light shirt begin to darken and it takes too long for Criken to realize it’s blood. He drops the flashlight and it rolls, finally illuminating behind Tomato and Criken can see someone. They’re expressionless, seemingly holding up Tomato with the knife in his back. 

His face isn’t blank. It’s a mask. 

Criken draws his gun and fires once over Tomato’s shoulder but Dollface is quick, using Tomato as a shield as Criken prepares to fire again. Unwilling to shoot his friend, Criken lowers his weapon, trying to come up with another option. 

A mistake. 

Dollface grabs Tomato’s flashlight and throws it at Criken, the light extinguishing as it bounced across the basement floor. Criken drops, not acknowledging what he just saw, because he knew that if he did, he would be next. His heart is beating much too loud, loud enough that he’s convinced that Dollface must be able to hear him as he searched desperately for the flashlight. Deciding it’s futile, Criken fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a lighter, pausing as he tried to strain his ears for movement. Instead he hears rushing water and a new smell begins to flood the basement. Gasoline. Criken feels his throat closing as he flicks his lighter on and Dollface jumps out, his lighter skittering across the concrete, the small flame creating a circle of light under some of the shelves. 

They roll and Criken can tell immediately that Dollface isn’t trained. He’s quick but Criken easily lands a few punches, and Dollface is on his hands and knees. Criken is breathing hard, the smell of gasoline seemingly getting closer and closer, and he glanced around to find Tomato. Dollface takes the opportunity to strike again, growling in anger as he grabs Criken’s shoulders and pushes him down. Criken might be quicker, but Dollface is angry. Criken can see that his own punches broke the killer’s mask, revealing the same high cheekbones and a wickedly curved smile from that picture, and the yellow sweater he seemed to be so fond of now covered in blood. Tomato’s blood. Dazed, Criken finally focused back on Dollface, who had drawn a knife and slashed at Criken’s face. 

Warmth spread across his cheek and Criken pushed Dollface off, scrambling backwards. Dollface disappeared into the dark again and there’s only one thing that keeps repeating in Criken’s mind: escape. 

Criken’s hand touched the stairs and he was up them in a flash, rushing out the door and collapsing as the house behind him exploded into a fiery mess. The rain was now coming down steadily, and Criken stared in disbelief as he pushed himself up, his ears ringing, the whole world around him muffled. 

Then it hit him. 

He sat in the rain for what felt like hours, not knowing what was tears and what was rain washing down his face, crying until he felt nothing anymore. His hands curled around the soft earth, his clothes soaked, his body chilled to the bone, but he still didn’t budge. 

Police arrived, probably due to reports of smoke and fire and it was finally Strippin that picked him up off the ground, carrying him to the ambulance. He was shaking uncontrollably, and he managed to choke out two words before they took him away. 

“He’s gone.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Criken pressed the STOP button, and both Char and Sput focus back on him. The scar across his cheek, which was barely visible before seemed stark now. Criken had a distant look to him, and his eyes darkened. 

“Tell me why I’m here.” His voice had dropped, and Char cleared his throat. 

“We had an accident-” 

“Bullshit.” Criken interrupted. “Why did you bring me back in?” Sput glanced at the door and Char swallowed hard. 

“We needed to know the details that weren’t in the original police reports.” 

“Why?” Criken ordered, and Char broke. 

“There has been a copycat killer.” 


	4. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( \ ə-ˈrȯr-ə \\): the Roman goddess of dawn; a luminous phenomenon that consists of streamers or arches of light appearing in the upper atmosphere of a planet's magnetic polar regions.

“What do you mean, copycat?” It had taken a case of beer for Criken to finally be not completely together anymore. Paired with the anger of opening up old wounds, Char could easily see this situation spiraling quickly downwards.

“The records,” Sput offers as peace. “We reopened you and…your case once we realized there were similarities between the murders.”

Char quickly nods. “We’ve been rerunning some of the dental records and redoing some of the bone work and none of them match the description of Dollface.”

“They’re too old,” Sput adds.

“We thought at first we had a copycat, but with the information that Dollface might be alive brings the possibility that he could be-”

“Finishing what he started.” Criken’s voice is smaller this time. “You needed information that someone just copying the murders wouldn’t know.”

“Who was left?” Char asks and Criken’s face darkens. 

“The body we found at the house in the safe was supposed to be Envy, I’m sure of it.” Criken’s hands curl into fists. “There’s three murder’s left.” He fixes his gaze back at Char. “Show me the case file.”

Char obliges, and Criken opens the file, deliberately looking through the pictures. The man was tied to a chair, his head rolled back, his lips sewn together, the mask only covering the top half of his face. His suit looked nice, something Criken would never be able to afford, and was splattered with blood from where his throat was cut.

“We also found live snakes in his stomach.”

“Snakes?” Criken repeats, flipping to the next page. The stake of wood that was impaled through his chest had been identified as yarrow, and Criken flipped to the next page, then the next, and finally closed the file.

“It’s been two years,” Criken sighs, his voice tired as he slides the file back across to Charborg. “He’s gone.” There is a pain in his voice that Char understands. He’s not really talking about Dollface.

“You’re probably right,” Sput tries to assure, lying through his teeth. “We just wanted to follow up on old leads, since our trail has gone cold.” The damage with Criken is already done though.

“Why did you have to talk to me then?” He snarls, standing up suddenly and Char pushes back in his chair, glancing over at Sput.

“We couldn’t find Buck, we assumed that you might know where he is.” 

“I don’t. We haven’t spoken since Tomato…” Criken suddenly stops talking, and Char decides that the interview is over. Char quickly retrieves the cassette from the recorder and pockets it, walking to the door but keeping his eye on Criken.

“Sorry,” Char mumbles, knowing that his apology is nowhere near the help Criken needs. “Want a ride? It wouldn’t be an issue.” Char holds the door open as Sput exits and they are hit in the face by the quietness of the rest of the station. Criken pauses in the threshold.

“I’m fine,” Criken assures. “I need the fresh air.”

The sky is newly dark, a mist hanging in the air that clings to his skin and hair and dampens his face as Criken begins his walk. The station lights fade behind him as he makes his way down the road. He watches his breath come out in clouds as he exhales, making his way from street light to street light, pulling his jacket a little tighter. Only a few cars pass him this late, and none of them slow down. Criken ignores the noises coming from the woods; he knows that the rustling will stop as soon as he passes, and that the eyes that he feels following him won’t dare break through the edge of the forest.

He’s much more sober when he reaches his porch, and tries to shake the cold from his bones as he unlocks the front door and is greeted by the smell of apple and cinnamon and a wonderful rush of _home._

“Glad you could finally make it,” a voice calls from the kitchen and Criken removes his shoes, locking the door behind him and making sure the curtains are drawn.

“Took a little longer than I thought,” Criken tries to make an excuse, and can sense the eye roll. He rounds the corner and the warmth of the room already makes him feel better.

“Dinner’s already cold,” Buck huffs, reaching into the oven to remove what probably used to be a pie.

“Not sure I would’ve wanted what you were cooking,” Criken mutters and earns himself an elbow in his stomach.

“I can cook!” Buck laughs, and Criken can’t stop himself from laughing as well.

“Oh, I _know_.” Buck turns back to the stove, a smile still stretched across his face as Criken opens the cabinet above his head, reaching in to grab a cup. He turns and walks, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet across the room.

“And I can smell the alcohol on _you_,” Buck scolds, his smile falling as he takes the bottle gently from Criken’s grip. He takes his glass as well, filling it with water from the sink. Criken takes it back with a sigh and making his way to the couch, flopping down, finally finding an ounce of comfort after the long day. Not soon after, Buck sprawls on the couch on top of him. They search the channels, settling on something mundane and more like background noise to tune out the rest of the world as they lay together.

Buck’s head rested on Criken’s chest, his eyes closed, and Criken appreciates the weight and the warmth of his body. His arms were reached up, clasped behind Criken’s neck, pulling gently on his hair. Buck hummed, shifting to make himself a bit more comfortable between Criken’s legs.

“How was work?” He purrs, his eyes still closed, his cheek turned to listen to Criken’s beating heart. Criken took a sip of his water, his other hand slowly massaging the top of Buck’s head, his thumb pressing against the thick curls, rubbing his skull. Criken put the cup down.

“They wanted me to go over the Sin’s case again,” Criken whispers, and Buck tensed. “Wanted to know where you were.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them everything, but told them I hadn’t talked to you since it ended.”

“I hate it.” There was a long silence that stretched between his words, an understanding between the two men.

“I know.” They sat for a while like that, the TV almost too quiet to hear, the sounds of night outside muffled by the safeness of the four walls they called a house.

They had made it a home.

A week after the explosion, Buck had called Criken. An overdose, Buck had been able to stutter out, and Criken was there faster than he had moved in a while. They had released Criken from the hospital and put him on leave and Criken felt completely empty. If you had asked Buck, Criken had been the one to save him, but really, they had saved each other.

Buck was clean, had been for a year and a half. He had a place every night to sleep and enough food to eat. Criken had someone to take care of, to take his mind off Tomato.

Criken also never told anyone that he took in Buck.

“I’m going to go to bed,” Buck groaned, pushing himself up and off the couch. Criken stirred awake, not knowing how long he had been asleep, and content with that knowledge.

“Night,” Criken calls back as Buck walked slowly to his room, the door shutting softly behind him. Criken got up as well, taking his cup to his own room. It was dimly lit, and Criken opens the closet, pulling out a cardboard box to stare at. He didn’t want to open it.

Criken sat himself on the floor, grabbing the edges of the box and carefully, deliberately, opened the box.

He begins to take things out, placing them in piles. Photos mostly, cut outs from newspapers, old yearbook photos. He pauses at one, holding it up to get a better look. Two kids, no older than 6, arm in arm smiling at whoever it was taking the photo. One had a huge mess of curly dark hair, his green sweater almost too fluffy for his small body. The other was a bright blonde, and the age of the photo couldn’t diminish the ocean blue of his eyes piercing the camera lens. He put it down in its own pile.

A t-shirt is balled in the bottom of the box, and Criken delicately removes it. It’s a dark navy, big yellow letters printed across the front. Police Academy. Criken begins to cry, quietly as not to wake Buck, but he quickly dissolves into sobbing.

“Crik,” Buck is standing in the doorway and Criken quickly wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He doesn’t look concerned, but his wide eyes Criken recognizes as fear. “I need to show you this.” Criken tries to compose himself as Buck shuffles over, holding out a letter to Criken. He takes it, feeling the thick paper in his hands. “I…it came in the mail a week ago, but I thought that if I just hid it, it would just go away.”

Criken opens the letter, and finds a small piece of paper with just an address, written in a curving font. Criken flips it over, but there’s nothing else.

“I looked it up, there’s nothing there,” Buck offers, and the wheels are turning in Criken’s mind, and he doesn’t like it.

“It’s the first house.” Criken says out loud, and Buck is quiet. “The house where we first found his photo.”

“I should go,” Buck suggests and Criken jumps up.

“Absolutely not, he will kill you,” Criken stares at Buck’s face, determination painted across it.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m going alone, you’re staying here,” Criken insists but as he walks to the door, Buck keeps up, blocking his path.

“Let me go with you, I can talk with him. He knows me.” Criken weighs his options.

“Fine, but you’re staying in the car.”

It’s a new moon, and the night sky is much darker now than it was a few hours ago. The radio shifts between stations and static, a low buzz that keeps Criken’s mind busy. Buck sits low in the passenger seat, his feet pushed against the dashboard.

The place was not any different than the last time Criken had been there, but it still gave him the same feeling of dread, and that was not lessened by the darkness of night.

“Alright, stay in the ca-” Criken begins but Buck was already opening the door and stepping out, so Criken decides it’s a better way to keep an eye on him anyways. They walk side by side up to the door and Criken notices a strange glow coming from inside. Buck’s face scrunches in concern and Criken pushes on the door. It slowly creaks open.

The room is filled with lit candles. All sizes, decorating the corners but forming a clear circle where something is covered with a white sheet. With a drop in his stomach, Criken recognizes the shape as a body. The candles all flicker, casting shadows in a disgusting orange light. Both Criken and Buck freeze, unsure what to do.

Criken draws his gun, the floor creaking as he decides to step closer. There are flowers tucked in under the body, and their shape and unmistakable color reveal them as rhododendrons. Even in the dark, they almost glow red. The sheet is wrapped tightly around the body, but almost draped over the corpse’s face. Criken squats down, glancing at Buck, who is still standing in the doorway. Before he can lose his confidence, Criken rips back the sheet and reveals a mask. Half a mask, Criken corrects, as the blood red painted mask only covers the top of the face, the mouth still visible. The mouth is open wide, a single lightbulb placed glass down inside. Criken’s mind flashes to a video he watched years ago about how certain light bulbs were the perfect shape to fit inside a person’s mouth, but couldn’t be removed. Criken swallowed hard, imagining the pain of removing all that glass from the inside of a person’s mouth. His gun is still in his hand as he reaches forward to remove the mask. He grips the edge, feeling the smoothness of the porcelain as he lifts the cover.

Criken scrambles backwards as the mask comes off, dropping both his gun and the mask. His heart almost jumped out of his chest in shock as he tries to take in what he’s seeing.  
  


Tomato.  
  


His cheeks are hollow, and his eyes are closed, but Criken couldn’t recognize that as anyone else. Softly, painfully, Criken speaks his name.

“Tomato,” Criken laments, crawling closer, afraid to touch the body. They hadn’t been able to have a proper funeral. Criken had dressed in black, but they all knew there was nothing in the coffin. He had buried his friend and drowned himself in sorrow. “Tomato,” Criken repeats, this time through the tears streaming down his face. Criken’s pain is quickly replaced with a blind rage. Dollface had done this, he had taken Tomato from him, and he was going to pay. Criken sniffs,, standing rapidly, his fists clenched.

Criken is still staring at the body when he hears a scream erupt from the backyard. He runs to the backdoor, peering out the open door to see Buck, wiggling uselessly as he hangs by his legs in some kind of trap, a spotlight blinding him from above.

“Criken!” Buck screams, pain and confusion filtering through his voice. A pain fills Criken’s chest at the sound. Criken opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted.

“Traitor!” The scream is guttural and violent, dripping with malice. Criken feels a chill run down his spine. Dollface. He steps into the spotlight, slowly beginning to circle Buck. A knife balances between his fingers, the blade glinting and reflecting back the light from above. “Are you too prideful now to even greet your own friend?” Buck whimpers, his breath coming in uneven gasps as his face grows redder from hanging upside down.

“Please, Bed-” Buck pleads, sniffing as tears drip up his face, creating streaks into his hair.

“Are you too good for me now?” Bed yells, kicking Buck in the side. Buck yelps, and Criken slowly creeps out the door, hiding behind a pile of scrap in the yard. “Tell me where your _friend_ is, and I’ll spare your life.”

“Criken, no!” Buck screams, and Bed growls, ripping down Buck’s sweatshirt, exposing his stomach. Criken ducks behind another set of wooden pallets, squinting between the wood.

“What do you think would happen,” Bed leans down, whispering as he presses the point of the knife against Buck’s stomach. “If I pushed a little. Bit. Harder?” Buck whines, but his mouth stayed shut as Bed traced the knife down. “What do you think would come out?” Dollface taunts. There’s defiance in Buck’s eyes.

“Run!” Buck yelled with as much energy as he could muster, and Criken’s blood turned to ice at the command, and the world shrinks to nothing, the only thing he could hear is his own blood pumping in his ears, the only thing he can see is Buck, swinging from side to side in slow motion. Dollface roars back, recoiling his arm before thrusting the knife deep into Buck’s flesh, dragging the blade down, viscera and blood and guts spilling out as it covered the blade and Dollface’s hand.

“NO!” Criken screams, jumping out of his hiding spot, and running towards the light. Dollface’s head snaps towards the sound sickeningly fast as he stands, and Criken stares in slack horror as he can see a now limb Buck hanging upside down, his sweatshirt and face soaked with blood, the red lines dripping down his face and soaking through his hair, leaving a puddle on the dirt ground underneath. The knife is still stuck hilt deep in his stomach.

“Too late,” Dollface cackles and Criken tackles the killer, both of them rolling in the blood and dirt. Criken channels his anger, sending punch after punch down at Dollface with almost no resistance. In the struggle, Dollface’s half broken mask is knocked off and Criken is finally able to see him clearly as he lays pinned underneath him. Criken pauses, fist in the air, his breathing ragged.

Criken had seen him before. In the security cameras, the baby pictures, the yearbook photos. But never in person. His eye is swelling and the area is black and blue and yellow, and blood seep from cuts across his face. Even in the dark, Criken can see that he’s petrified, and with a start, Criken realizes how young he really is. He is the same age as Buck. Blood splattered across his neck and fleck onto his cheek, the blood making the hands that are gripped onto Criken’s arm’s slimy and warm.. Buck’s blood.

And that’s when he stabs Criken. White hot pain shoots up his side and Bed pushes Criken off, scrambling away as Criken’s vision goes blurry. He collapses onto the ground in pain. Dirt and blood filled Criken’s mouth, and he can see Bed begin to circle him, his hair matted with blood, a feral look in his eyes. He smiles, a deranged laugh escaping his lips, and Criken can see the blood in his teeth.

“My Wrath,” Bed hisses, his lips curling up as raises the knife once again over Criken’s body. Criken closed his eyes tightly.

Dollface freezes, and Criken cautiously opens his eyes to watch a red spot appear and grow across Dollface’s chest, the anger on his face replaced with confusion. The knife falls to the ground with a dull thud and Bed drops to his knees and falls backwards, blood soaking his shirt. Criken feels lightheaded and pain rushes through his body as he pushes himself up. Standing at the edge of the light is Tomato, his arm still raised, Criken’s gun shaking in his grip. He’s holding tightly to the sheet wrapped around him and blood is dripping from his closed mouth.

Criken pushes through his own pain as he watches Tomato collapse, dropping the gun. Criken barely catches him, cradling his head in his hand, holding him close. Tomato’s eyes are half closed, and he gurgles something.

“Don’t,” Criken grates, his own pain flaring as he kneels in the grass. He leans forward, letting his forehead touch Tomato’s. Criken grabs his phone, dialing 911.

The night is fading now, beams of sunlight barely touching the treetops. The black sky fading into a faint blue and yellow. Dawn. Criken pulls Tomato up, letting his weight fall onto his shoulders and helps him over to Buck. His breath is coming in shuddering breaths, and Criken winces as he lowers Tomato down once again. The knife that Dollface had used to stab Criken lay in a puddle of blood and he carefully leans over to grab it, the engraving on the handle outlined in blood. The lettering is old, carved by an inexperienced, young hand. _Bed. _Criken grips it and reaches up to Buck’s feet, sawing at the rope, cutting Buck free. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Criken breathes, closing his eyes, the sounds of an ambulance siren rising in the distance as he collapses between Tomato and Buck. 

It was over.

They were okay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_5 months later…_

_“On a long and lonesome highway, East of Omaha…”_

The radio blared music as the prisoner took the newspaper, opening it to the first page. The man on the other side of the bar was silent, crossing his arms. The prisoner turned down the music as he spoke.

“‘All Except Killer Survive Shootout,’ nice click bait title there,” Bed read sarcastically, throwing the paper back at the black suit clad visitor he had that morning. “Who did you say you were again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the man repeated, and Bed cocked his head to the side.

“Oh, everyone matters,” He smiled, gripping the bars of his jail cell. The man sighed, removing his sunglasses.

“This is a once in a lifetime chance to start again. Do you want that?” Bed kept his gaze on the man as he retreated back to his cot, sitting haphazardly.

“What do you get from this?” He questioned, touching the spot on his chest where the bullet had entered.

“We gain the incredible medical work of one Dr. Tanner,” the man in black answered, pushing his sunglasses back on.

“I will be allowed to conduct any experiments?”

“Within reason,” A female voice answered, and Bed tracked it to see a woman dressed almost identical to the man in black, her hair cut to just below her chin, her eyes hidden behind the same dark sunglasses. 

“Fine. Sign me up,” Bed stood back up again, and the door to his cell clicked open. The man extended his hand.

“Welcome to the Foundation, Doctor.”

“No, it’s my pleasure.” The radio crackled with static for a moment before the station changed and rock music blared out from the speakers. A pounding drum beat, followed by a wailing guitar.

_“If it keeps on rainin’ levee’s goin’ to break…”_


End file.
